Description

Personality

Name: Paris Madelite
Nickname(s): Only one man calls me Perry, and that man is dead. Probably.
Age: Old enough for sex, drugs, and rock n' roll.
Gender: Just because I don't have any tits doesn't mean I'm a man.
Place of Birth: Cytiatech
Current Residence: Cytiatech
Role: Employee of Cytiatech. And by 'employee', I mean robot janitor.

Height: I don't know...like, 5'9"? Tall?
Weight: You want to weigh me and find out?
Hair Color: Green. Why? Hell if I know.
Eye Color: Green.
Build: I'm pretty sure you have eyes, dipshit.
Defining Feature(s): I'm a fucking robot?
Race/Ethnicity: Does machine count?
Fashion: I like glasses with big frames, headphones, scarves, popped collars...you know.

Temperament: Choleric/Phlegmatic
Sin: Wrath. Damn straight.
Virtue: Ha! I don't know, diligence?
Orientation: Straight as a line.
Marital Status: Single. Wasn't always, though. I thought.
Around Others: You got ears, don't you?
Inner Self: Yes, let me tell you all about my feelings and deep, dark secrets. That sounds like a good idea.
Goals: Get a job that doesn't suck so much. Be something.

Likes: I like music. I liked a guy. That's it.
Dislikes: Everything.
Strengths: I'm good at cleaning. Know a little bit about Sound, which is good against Water, Energy, and Psyche. Not that I ever fight, though.
Weaknesses: I'm a lowly, worth-shit robot janitor. Can't see without my glasses. What dumbass programmed that in?
Fears and Phobias: Dying, I guess. Don't got a soul, so where do I go?
Theme Song: Cyber Bird

Head & Neck: Square Clip, Red Glasses, Earbuds, Red Scarf
Arms & Hands: Red Watch, Black Armband
Above Waist: Cool Janitor Top
Below Waist: Cool Janitor Bottom

Weapon of Choice: Got this wimpy little blaster. Stuns people for a whole five seconds. Ho-ly shit. I'd be better off just whacking someone with it. Fuck, I'd be better off just whacking someone with my mop.
Style of Combat: Because I totally fight.
Elemental Attribute: Sound

Powers & Abilities: Dabble a little bit in Sound, but I couldn't really do anything but distract someone with it.
Weapons: Again, wimpy blaster. Mop.
Support: Nothing.
Valuables: This clip is my soul. Touch it and I'll fuck you up.
Transportation: My legs. You've got 'em too, you lazy dick.

History:

Woke up, said "my head hurts like a bitch", and everyone clapped.

Felt kind of special for a minute. People were celebrating me, holy shit, and I had only been existing more about five seconds. That happy sunshine went away damn fast, though. I was just a revolution in cleaning. That's scientist for janitor.

Didn't really care. Did my job, that's what robots do. Sometimes my creator would talk to me. He was cool, we were cool. Told me about how he programmed my personality in just to piss off his co-workers, how I could probably shoot lasers from my eyes if I just believed. I liked him. Maybe too much.

One day he kind of vanished. Maybe he got fired, maybe he died, point is I never saw him again. Got kinda sad. Hoped he'd come back. He didn't.

Life is a bitch, and we just gotta deal.

Kept working, working. Feel kind of purposeless. But robots, we got one purpose and we stick to it. If we don't, we're just a pile of scraps. I'm not gonna be a pile of scraps. I'll be the best motherfucking janitor you've ever seen.